


Laurens in Absentia

by GwendolynGrace



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:37:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the days and weeks following his Pamphlet's publication, Hamilton had never wished more for Laurens to be alive." Hamilton considers whether he might not have gone about the Reynolds pamphlet in the same way, or at all, if he had been able to talk it over with Laurens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laurens in Absentia

**Author's Note:**

> This probably owes more to the Lin-Manuel Miranda musical than to real history, but the thought lodged in my head after about the 3rd listen to the soundtrack, and would not go away. Thank you to Heidi for the quick beta job! 
> 
> The Lams in this is more implicit than stated outright, but I am (unfortunately?) fairly confident there may be more explicit lams-fic bunnies lurking in my brain....

In the days and weeks following his Pamphlet's publication, Hamilton had never wished more for Laurens to be alive. Understand, there was never a day when Hamilton did _not_ wish fervently that Laurens had lived, but those months were perhaps the worst. Laurens would have flown to his side, even as Eliza and Angelica, everyone, really, had turned away. 

More importantly, though, Hamilton realized: Had Laurens been alive, he might have confided in his dearest friend, sought advice before plunging headlong into his own ruination. Laurens, ever the more restrained of the two of them, would have pointed out his folly and stopped him. Hamilton might even have listened, if the admonition had come from such a quarter.

As it was, he had had no confidante and thus had to live alone with his self-recrimination. It was impossible to seek forgiveness from Betsey; she would not see him. Angelica's place in their home was, for the foreseeable future, confined to interposing herself between her sister and his attempts to prostrate himself before his wife's mercy. "You might at least have _told_ Eliza, ahead of publication, instead of leaving her to learn of it through the printed page, and common, low gossip!" Angelica had chided him. He heard Laurens' voice repeat it in his head, too.

He'd cleared his name of speculation but how had he not had the insight to realize that every ally he had ever made would turn away? Laurens would have warned him. Laurens would have seen that outcome and steered him from the abyss.

If he'd had Laurens to consult. He lost count of the number of times he regretted losing the luxury of a friend to talk to. It had been a revelation to discover, years before in General Washington's service, that the other aides-de-camp shared his enthusiasms, his fervent commitment to the war effort, his selfless dedication to the General, and even, he flattered himself, affection toward one another. Comrades, brothers in soul, as well as in arms. He'd never had that before. Not even with his own brother.

James had had the fortune to be better with his hands than his mind. He didn't care, nor, Alexander thought, did he ever stop to consider how he might have climbed with a little more intelligence and a good deal more ambition--but on the other hand, that meant James had been more blissfully accepting of his mean condition and meager prospects. He had entered apprenticeship without a backward glance. Not so, Alexander. But it meant there had been little sympathy in his elder brother for Alexander's desire to better himself. He grew weary of James's dismissals. And after their Mother died, those months with Cousin Peter could hardly have been considered stable or comforting. Peter had had his own demons to wrestle.

Oh, if Alexander had only had a John Laurens by his side in those days! But then again, perhaps he would never have risen above his station if he'd had anyone else to lean on. Alexander's self-reliance was necessary. It had pushed him not only to survive but to relentlessly seek advantage for himself. It had served him particularly well in the wake of Peter's suicide, once he had absorbed the shock of it. He'd lost little time pleading his extreme need to Mr Stevens, ingratiating himself into the family. Edward, his agemate and adoptive brother, counted as a friend, true, but not of the sort one hoped to make a boon companion through hardship or privation. Something in Alexander had known that, even when he was desperate for a hand to hold. He'd relished Edward's open smile and inviting company, but had guarded his heart against yet another disappointment. After his father, his mother, his brother, his cousin -- it was simply prudent to prepare to be abandoned again.

So perhaps it had been inevitable that John Laurens would leave him prematurely, too. Proof, Hamilton thought, that the only person in whom Hamilton could trust was one A. Hamilton.

Moreover, he had needed his determination and autarchy when he'd been in charge of Beekman and Cruger by himself during his teens. His youth and size meant he had had to respond with three times the industry as any other -- boy or man -- within ten nautical miles of Nevis. It certainly helped that no one could tell how old or how small he was on the receiving end of a letter! But he remembered with a sting the first time he'd had to go down to the docks to meet a ship as it made harbor. The stevedores and midshipmen were doubtless used to young clerks, apprentices and journeymen not much older than Alexander, but that didn't mean they forbore to have their fun. 

"Good God," one of the sailors said as Alexander had waited at the gangplank, "look at this little missy. If you're looking to sign on as a cabin boy, young'un, you'll have better luck on one o'them French ships. We're a good Danish charter and don't take bumboys to sea." His shipmates laughed. Alexander had retorted calmly that he did, in fact, seek the Captain, but that as he was already the ship's employer, he had no need for a servile post. In fact, if there were any arses to be kissed, it would shortly be the sailor on his knees and puckering up. The Captain had refused to believe him Beekman's duly appointed representative but Alexander had been prepared for that. He promptly supplied all his bona fides, a copy of the manifest that had been issued when the ship set sail from St Croix, a list of the expected cargo, letters that Cruger had left for him expressly for the purpose of establishing his authority, and not least, a copy of the note he'd sent the Captain the day before. The Captain wound up tripping over himself to turn over his logs and the cargo manifest, invited Alexander to inspect the holds himself, and even extended an offer to join him for supper that evening.

Resilience had seen him all the way to Boston, then to New Jersey, and finally to New York when Witherspoon had (inexplicably!) refused to allow him to complete his studies at the College of New Jersey. Fortitude had enabled him to survive when he had to choose between books and breakfast (books, always). Forbearance had clothed him while his coats grew threadbare, while he looked on as his classmates took him to the alehouses and he politely nursed one tankard of small beer for an hour. Then he would excuse himself and return, always, to study. Candles were his one extravagance. He took solace in solitude, disappearing into the pages, using them to light fire in his soul and feed his spirit. 

Was it any wonder he'd put more faith in words than in people?

The low couch in his office, which served as his bed now that Betsey had (quite rightfully) ejected him from theirs, was an all-too familiar and all-too painful confirmation that, soon or late, he would be on his own again. It reminded him of the cot in his quarters on General Washington's staff. And that, in turn, reminded him of Laurens. Yes, if only he'd had Laurens to consult….

And yet…. 

It did strike him some time later that even had Laurens lived, he might _not_ have consulted the other. Not because of the shame, which he felt as keenly as a wound but did not fear. Not because admitting his transgression to Laurens would have been so painful, either, though he did not like to think of his friend's disapproval. If truth be told, he had wished for Laurens more than once while drafting his preemptive confession. Nonetheless, he had to admit that what he longed for in those moments was the unconditional support and care which he had always enjoyed from his dear one. Still, he knew himself well enough to admit this much: Even in the midst of his most desperate pangs, it might not ever have occurred to him to ask advice on the topic, or his chosen course, even from Laurens. He had, after all, no other constant than his own resources. Everything else was nothing but illusion. It tantalized, and then was snatched away at the moment he began to believe the mirage.

Witness, Laurens' own person. Witness, Hamilton's place in General Washington's military family.

When the war started in earnest, he'd lost no time enlisting. He applied himself to soldiery with the same aplomb as everything else, knowing that his only viable career would come through rapid promotion. A commission as an officer was offered and accepted. For the first time his life, he was able to put by a tiny amount of pay against future expenses. But he still knew it was all an illusion; there would be no tomorrow if they could not win the fight.

Meeting Laurens, the Marquis de Lafayette, and the handful of other officers on Washington's staff who had been worth more than tuppence, he had again felt a new sensation of belonging. These were men who would gladly give their lives, as he would, in the service of freedom. And Laurens most of all. It had been John who had loaned him the money for his horse, and to replace his boots. John who had kept him warm at Valley Forge. John whose release from the British he had driven himself half-mad to secure. 

In his darkest moods, he would gladly have traded Betsey and the children just to have Laurens back. Even if they had had to share a garret, or sleep on the ground, side by side as they had on the march, it would have been perfect so long as they could be together. Indeed, had he had the option, then Mistress Reynolds might never have captured the smallest portion of his interest! Though, he admonished himself, such speculation was in its way more dangerous than the sort of which Monroe and Jefferson accused him. Who could say whether the easy familiarity he and Laurens had enjoyed would have continued after the war? Always, John's doubts had shadowed their affections. Perhaps that was why it had to end. Why Laurens had sought death. It made a perverse sense, particularly if one believed in divine punishment. Laurens had lamented of that, but Hamilton chose to think he, and not John, was the one being punished. 

So it seemed he would never know whether he could have entrusted his dilemma to his Laurens, or even if there would have been a dilemma to face. But if only he'd had the opportunity, assuming he had had the need, then perhaps his dearest friend's cooler judgment would have prevailed. Laurens, who was so cautious as to wisely commit nothing to parchment which might later have caused its own sort of scandal. Laurens, who flung himself headlong into battle in order to fight earthly foes rather than the demons within his heart. Laurens, who would have called him a beautiful fool and told him to let things ride, to keep silent.

When in his life had Hamilton ever kept silent?


End file.
